


One Yuletide Night

by Eienvine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pre-Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: So far, this quest has not gone as Sif planned: a hunt on a distant planet has turned into her pretending to be Loki's date at a Yule ball. But she's not going to let this distract her from her mission . . . even if it turns out that having Loki pretend to court her is rather more pleasant than she'd expected.
Relationships: Loki/Sif (Marvel)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 121
Collections: Mischief and Mistletoe 2019





	One Yuletide Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverducks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverducks/gifts).



> To fulfill the prompt "I really like stories where we see Loki and Sif getting together, especially growing up together in Asgard and going on adventures. I do love a good trope too, like hate/love, fake relationship and arranged marriages." I tried to hit a few of those. I hope you enjoy it, silverducks!
> 
> Rated G+ for violence against giant scorpions, which is a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say.

\---

**7:00**

\---

“You look lovely,” comes the voice of their host, and Sif turns to see Alsiv striding toward her, resplendent in the gold and white clothing of the Light Elves.

“Thank you,” she says, inclining her head, “and thank you for lending us clothing.”

“But?” he prompts. “You are smiling, my dear, but there is hesitation in your eyes; there is a ‘but’ coming.”

Caught, she admits, “It is simply that it feels strange to be attending a ball, knowing what we’re here to do. What lurks out there in the darkness.”

But Alsiv shakes his head with a smile. “Only a fool would travel these lands at night. And besides, unless you can see in the dark, you wouldn’t be able to track the scorpion. It is far wiser to wait until morning to begin your hunt, don’t you agree?”

She nods.

“And if you are going to be spending the night here anyway, it would be quite silly not to attend our ball, don’t you agree? Especially since I know you Asgardians enjoy the Yule season as much as we do. See, your being here is the only sensible outcome. Now, where is that young man of yours?”

Sif opens her mouth to object that Loki is not her young man, but she is interrupted by the entrance of the prince in question. Like her, he is dressed in borrowed elven finery, and she is a little surprised at how good he looks. Sometimes she forgets that he is a very handsome man.

“Wonderful!” Alsiv says, clapping his hands together. “And you two shall be my guests of honor tonight, to thank you for coming to rid our lands of this beast. It was very good of the Allfather to honor us by sending his own son on his behalf,” he says to Loki.

Sif thinks Loki looks a little surprised and very pleased, and it occurs to her how seldom he is in this position—how seldom he is the honored guest, the esteemed emissary from the Asgardian royal family. And though it has been many years since she and Loki were good friends—he has withdrawn somewhat from Thor’s social circle in recent decades—she cannot help but be pleased for him: pleased that Odin chose him to lead the hunt, pleased that he is being recognized for it by the people of the Nine Realms.

And she is pleased for herself, too: pleased that Loki has chosen her for this mission. For she is not always requested for such outings; although her prowess is great and has been proven time and time again, there is a certain bias that still lingers in the minds of many, and makes them overlook her when warriors are sought. Loki has paid her a great compliment by choosing her, which makes her more inclined than normal to think highly of the trickster prince. He has given her an opportunity for battle, for glory, for songs to be sung about her might. How could she fail to be charitably disposed toward him right now?

Which is why she does what she does, when Alana arrives.

Some time later, the Asgardians are standing at the back of the manor’s massive entry hall, watching Alsiv and his wife receive their guests, when Sif, who happens to be glancing at Loki, sees him suddenly go very rigid, his expression fixed on the doorway.

“What is it?” she asks, her blood pumping, her adrenaline surging; she’s ready for a fight if a fight is coming.

Loki glances at her, and then back at the door, his gaze seemingly fixed on the couple that has just entered: two elves, beautiful and beautifully dressed. The woman has her arm looped through the man’s, but other than that, their body language does not indicate much closeness. 

“Someone you know?” she guesses.

His lip turns up in a very faint sneer, and immediately Sif is intrigued. Loki dislikes practically everyone, so that’s not surprising. But he’s never met any of these people before, has he?

“Or is it a secret?” she continues when he doesn’t answer. Now that she has suggested it, she does wonder if Loki will not answer, because he is indeed a very secretive person.

But after a moment he glances over at her. “The woman who just entered,” he says. “Her name is Alana. I’m . . . not entirely pleased to see her here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, we’ve met at a few diplomatic events on Alfheim in the past.” He hesitates. “She’s . . . fond of me.”

“Oh,” says Sif, and then with more understanding, _“Oh.”_

Loki’s lip curls faintly. “Indeed. I’d had no idea of her living on this colony now.”

“Not your type?” Sif guesses, and is briefly distracted by the fact that come to think of it, she has no idea what Loki’s type is; he’s not had a long-lasting romantic attachment in all the time she’s known him.

Loki grimaces.

“You cannot simply tell her you don’t return her interest?”

“It’s never worked before. She is remarkably good at not hearing what she does not want to hear.”

“Tell her your father would never approve,” she suggests. “Appropriate wives for the princes, and all that.”

“Oh,” says Loki, “she does not want to marry me. And if she did, I think her husband would object.”

“Ah,” says Sif, who is beginning to get a clearer mental picture of this Alana. “And you expect her to make this evening unpleasant?”

“She is relentless,” Loki confirms. “And it means that she can certainly make an evening unpleasant. But I cannot simply refuse to speak to her; her grandfather is a leader among the Light Elves, and Father shall not be pleased with me if I damage our relationship with him by upsetting his granddaughter.”

Now, Sif, at this moment, finds herself in an excellent mood. She still thinks attending this Yule ball feels a little foolish, given that there is, at this moment, a giant scorpion somewhere out there in the darkness, terrorizing this colony. However, she is looking forward to an excellent meal, and an excellent hunt in the morning. She can feel the anticipation of the battle to come burning in the back of her mind.

And this good mood puts her in a joking frame of mind. “If it would help, we could pretend to be courting,” she teases.

Loki blinks, and his face goes very unreadable for a moment. And then he says, “That might help, actually. Perhaps she would respect another person’s claim more than she would respect my wishes.”

Sif snorts at that.

“What?”

“Simply thinking that you are learning firsthand what it’s like to be a woman, and be plagued by men who won’t take no for an answer, and who ‘respect another man’s claim more than they respect your wishes,’ as you put it.”

Loki examines her a long moment, and she realizes he was being quite sincere. “You are serious about us pretending to court?” she asks.

Immediately he retreats into a defensive, prickly sort of dignity—something that she has seen from him more and more of late, and that she hates every time. “I have no doubt doing such a thing sounds repellent to you,” he says. “But you can see how it would solve my problem.”

Sif can only stare at him for a long moment. To admit to needing another person’s help, to show any kind of vulnerability, is so unlike Loki that she hardly knows what to think. But he does appear to be in earnest, which is something she hardly ever sees in him anymore.

“All right,” she hears herself say.

“All right?” Loki repeats in surprise.

She shrugs. “You were kind to choose me to join you on this outing; it would be good for me to return that kindness. Besides, I can understand the sentiment that might lead you to ask. But are you certain? If word gets back to Asgard that we’re supposedly courting . . .”

The surprise still lingers at the corners of Loki’s eyes, but he says confidently, “No one on this colony has any reason to communicate with anyone in Asgard—not here, so many miles from any of the Nine Realms.” And then his confidence flags a little. “Are _you_ certain? That you’d want to? With me?” he asks with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Her initial instinct is to admit that she’s _not_ certain; Loki was a dear friend to her once, but he has been a little distant from her and Thor and the Warriors Three for many decades now and sometimes she feels that she scarcely knows him anymore. But she misses the friend she once had. And anyway, she sympathizes a little; if she were in such a situation, she could simply blacken the offender’s eye, but the prince of Asgard cannot leave a mess behind him wherever he goes—especially not among the Realm’s allies. Were she in his shoes, she might appreciate someone giving her a graceful way to avoid the situation.

So she slips her arm through his, taking a moment to notice the firm muscle beneath his formal clothing. “I have offered, and I will see this through.”

“A truly touching show of willing support,” Loki mutters. “But beggars can’t be choosers. I appreciate this, Sif.” And he sets his free hand on the one she has looped through his arm.

“See that you remember that the next time I need your help,” she requests.

\---

**8:00**

\---

The moment Sif meets Alana, her promise to Loki morphs into a personal mission, because she immediately dislikes the woman as much as Loki does.

After making the rounds to the other guests, the woman sashays up to where they stand with a grace that Sif could never muster in a ballroom (and that she could certainly never manage wearing such impractical-looking shoes). She is stunningly beautiful, in the fair, shining way of the Light Elves, but the effect of her ethereal appearance is somewhat marred by the way she carries herself, as though she expects to elicit breathless admiration everywhere she goes.

“Loki Odinson, what an absolute delight!” she declares in a throaty voice that, Sif imagines, is meant to be seductive. “I’d no idea of your being here. However did Alsiv convince you to come all the way out here?” Without waiting for an answer, she leans forward and smiles. “You haven’t aged a day, have you? You look as good as you did the last time I saw you.”

Loki gives some vague, civil response.

“How long has it been?” she asks. “Three years? It is an absolute shame we don’t see each other more, isn’t it? When we get along so famously. Don’t we get along famously, Your Highness?”

She carries on like this for some time, scarcely pausing for breath and never requiring a response from Loki. Loki looks politely interested, but to Sif, who knows him well (well, she used to know him well, and now she just inhabits the same chunk of Asgard as him, and that’s sort of the same thing), his boredom and unhappiness are clear.

The knowledge that Loki dislikes the woman’s advances would have been enough to find Alana’s tone and words irritating, but there is even more irritation to be found in the way her conversation completely excludes both Loki’s companion and her own. She hasn’t so much as glanced in Sif’s direction since spotting Loki, which Sif finds a little offensive, and she can only imagine how this Alana’s husband feels. When Sif glances at him, she sees him looking a little bored, and she wonders if he knows that his wife has attempted to draw Loki into her infidelity before.

When finally Alana stops to draw breath, Loki manages to speak up and derail her rambling. “You must allow me to make introductions. This beautiful woman on my arm is the Lady Sif, one of the fiercest warriors in all of Asgard.” He sets his free hand on top of the hand she currently has hooked around his elbow. “Dearest, this is Alana, and . . . I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your husband’s name.”

“Konol,” offers the man.

“‘Dearest?’” Alana repeats, raising a golden eyebrow. “This is a new development. I thought Loki Odinson had no time for love.”

“So did I,” Loki says, and rubs his thumb over Sif’s knuckles, and turns on her a look of adoration so pure and fervent that it nearly takes her breath away. She knows Loki deserves his God of Lies nickname, but she had no idea until this moment of his being such a good actor. “But this extraordinary lady snuck up on me. One moment I thought there was nothing in my head except for my studies, and the next moment, there was nothing in my head but her.”

A lovely sentiment; Sif doesn’t trust herself to come up with something equally good, and she definitely doesn’t trust herself to deliver it as believably as Loki just did his lines. So when Alana asks how long they’ve been courting, she simply turns to Loki and says, “Loki has a much better mind for exact numbers and days,” which happens to entirely true.

“Eight months,” says Loki. “Two weeks, and one day.”

And again he gives her a look of such devotion that she feels a little guilty that he’s having to do all the emotional heavy lifting in this fake relationship. So she imagines what a lovesick young lady might say, and then musters up, “I find it rather sweet that he always knows the exact count.”

“It’s an easy day to remember,” Loki says modestly. “Because how often does a goddess agree to let you court her?”

He is laying it all on a bit thick, and Sif hardly knows how to respond. Her most serious relationship to date was with Haldor, a valiant young man who tragically fell under the thrall of the wicked Lorelei, leading to his eventual death. She loved him quite sincerely at the time (though she doesn’t know whether those feelings were strong enough to linger forever), but even at the height of that relationship, neither of them was the sort to murmur sweet nothings or pay beautiful compliments to each other. So she hardly knows how to respond when a man is gazing at her and declaring his adoration for her, like Loki is right now.

So at first she is glad when Alsiv joins their group and interrupts Loki’s feigned affection, but she quickly comes to regret it when their host looks down at their joined hands and arms, and begins to laugh and cheer. 

“Look at you two!” he says. “I wondered if there was more to your relationship than you let on. Why did you not tell me?”

“We are here to hunt the scorpion,” Loki lies smoothly. “We were trying to be professional.”

“That makes sense,” Alsiv says thoughtfully, “But still, I should have trusted my instincts. I saw the way you gaze at the Lady Sif, after all.”

Sif blinks.

“When does the meal begin?” Loki asks abruptly.

Alsiv glances back at the passages that lead in the direction of the dining hall. “Any minute. And now, if you’ll excuse me, there are a few last-minute arrangements I need to go make. One of which will now be changing the seating chart at dinner. I had set you two down at different tables, to share out the Asgardians among those who want to meet them, but far be it from me to keep young lovers apart. I’ll go make sure you two are seated side by side.”

“Oh, good,” says Loki. “Isn’t that delightful, Sif?”

Sif puts on her best smile. “Delightful.”

\---

**9:00**

\---

A Light Elf Yule celebration is a rather different affair than an Asgardian one. Though the Asgardians are the most advanced of the Nine Realms, their culture, in many ways, hails back to the earliest days of their civilization, when they were still a rough-hewn, warlike race, scrabbling for survival on an unforgiving chunk of rock. So their celebrations tend to involve feasting on meat and mead while listening to tales told of previous battles and glories.

The Light Elves, in sharp contrast, have always had a taste for the finer things in life, and their Yule celebration reflects that. There is a fine dinner on porcelain plates, paired with delicate wines and a small ensemble playing stringed instruments, and afterwards they will to go to the ballroom for dancing.

“Why are there so many forks?” Sif mutters to Loki, who smirks.

“It’s a sign of sophistication,” he murmurs back. “Just do as I do.”

There are advantages to dining with a prince, apparently.

Their dining companions are a handful of elven couples. The man nearest them was a warrior in his youth, and he turns out to be a delightful conversational partner; he gives them advice about the local terrain (far more useful than anything Alsiv has told them so far), and asks them their strategy to take down the scorpion, and swaps stories with them about battles long past.

Sif is so caught up in the conversation that she entirely forgets that she’s meant to be in love with Loki, and he apparently forgets as well, because he hasn’t touched her or shown her overly much attention since they sat down.

Which is, perhaps, why Sif suddenly catches Alana giving them a very speculative look from across the room.

Ah, yes, their act. Sif pretends she hasn’t noticed the woman staring, and then after a few moments have passed, she puts her hand on Loki’s arm and leans in close so that she can murmur in his ear in a way that should look quite intimate to observers. “Your friend is watching us,” she says quietly. “I don’t know that we’re doing a very good job of convincing her that we are courting.”

Loki, who has gone very still, does not reply for a long moment. Then he murmurs back, “I had not wanted to pester you overmuch with my attention.”

“I have committed to this deception,” she insists. “And if I am going to do it, I am going to do it well.”

Loki leans back to give her a considering look for a moment, and then gives her a minute shrug. “I should not expect less from the Lady Sif. Well, if you are certain.”

And from that moment on, she learns what it is like to have the full (if feigned) romantic attentions of Loki Odinson on her. He leans close; he finds reasons to touch her often; he directs all his body language in her direction; he focuses on her when she speaks as though what she has to say is the most fascinating thing he can imagine hearing.

It is a little overwhelming, although not at all in a bad way. Haldor, rest his soul, was a very good man, and very sincerely fond of her. But his love never looked like this; his mind, like hers, was fixed on the battle, on his duty. Loki behaves as though she consumes his every thought, as though he has eyes and ears only for her, and she is, once again, amazed at how very good an actor he is.

\---

**10:00**

\---

“You are lying,” insists the elven woman next to Sif. “You must be! Can such incredible tales be true?”

“They are true,” Loki insists.

The elderly warrior who’s been conversing with them all throughout the meal nods his agreement. “I believe it. I have long heard the tales of the incredible exploits of the Asgardian princes and their warrior companions. And my brother was in Vanaheim when they fought off those bandits last year.”

“Incredible,” says the woman. “What a tale. And what valor you showed, Lady Sif!”

Sif inclines her head graciously. “You are kind to say so. But I was simply doing my duty to Asgard.”

“My love is too modest,” says Loki, taking her hand where it lays on the table and gently pressing it. “She was the hero of that battle. My brother received all the glory and accolades for the victory, but for those of us who were there, it was clear who truly carried the day.”

Sif is not the sort to blush, but if she were, she would be blushing, for she knows Loki to be playing a part right now, but there is something in his manner that tells her he means what he says.

“And you?” asks the woman. “What were you doing in this battle, Your Highness?”

Loki shrugs airily. “Getting in the way and making things harder for everyone else, no doubt.”

The injustice of his self-evaluation stings Sif, and, spurred on by how very complimentary he has been to her, she objects. “That is not true. Loki was extraordinary in that battle. He would have you believe he is not a warrior, but he is in fact a very talented one. And a more talented sorcerer. He has helped us win many a fight with his knives and his magic.”

“Oh?” says the woman. “Tell us.”

Now embarrassed at her outburst, Sif says, “I am a poor storyteller, ma’am.”

Beside her, Loki releases her hand and looks away, and the trace of dejection she sees in that movement spurs her to speak. “When we fought the wyrm of Acheron,” she says, “for one example. It nearly got the better of us, for its blood was noxious, and when we finally wounded it, the fumes that escaped blinded and incapacitated us all. It was only Loki who escaped being affected, so it fell to him to fight it.”

Their audience looks fascinated. “What did he do?” demands the man.

“He used his magic to create a copy of himself and lead the wyrm away from us, to avoid doing us more harm. And then he slew the beast with a single mighty throw of his spear.”

Loki gives her a curious look. “You describe it as though you saw it, milady, but I know that you were blinded at the time.”

She smiles. “Heimdall saw, and told me.”

His eyebrow quirks up. “I didn’t think Heimdall liked me.”

“He would not fail to give credit where credit is due.” Then she grins. “And if you are not his favorite person, you can hardly blame him for that. Recall the incident with the goats?”

Loki makes a great show of being deeply affronted. “I’ll have you know, the goats were entirely Thor’s fault.”

Sif just laughs. “I think the world of Thor, but I don’t think he’s smart enough to have been responsible for that incident.”

“What is this story?” asks the man they’ve been speaking to, his expression showing him to be ready to be amused.

Loki glances at Sif, who smiles. “Well,” he says, “it all started when I found a pile of acorns . . .”

Sif sits back and watches the telling of the story with a satisfied smile on her face. She can’t recall the last time she saw Loki this open, this relaxed. And she wonders, not for the first time, how much of his current unsociableness stems from always being in Thor’s shadow.

Of course that doesn’t explain or excuse everything. He’s a grown man, and a prince of Asgard, and someone who brags often about his skills in statecraft and diplomacy; he ought to be able to deal with the fact that his brother is more popular than him without becoming sulky and moody. However, she does understand and empathize, a little.

And as his description of a particularly hungry goat makes the whole table laugh until there are tears in their eyes, she wishes that he would find a way to get past this resentment he holds in his heart about what he sees as his lesser status.

Because she misses this Loki. She’d forgotten how easily he can make her laugh, and what good company he can be, and she wishes she got to see this version of him more often than just those times when his brother is a million miles away.

\---

**11:00**

\---

Alsiv stares at her as though she has sprouted an extra head. “You do not dance?” he repeats incredulously.

“I never learned.”

Loki looks a little surprised too. “But I have seen you dance,” he points out.

“Oh, that,” says Sif dismissively. “Polskas and rulls, the folk dances every Asgardian child learns: I can do those. But nothing like this.” She waves her hand at the ballroom, where hordes of elves in glittering clothing swirl in mesmerizing patterns on the floor.

“Then do one of those dances!” Alsiv suggests. He walks over to the orchestra leader and says something to him; the current song ends, and the one they start next is one she recognizes very well.

“This is one of your songs, is it not?” Alsiv says. “Now you have no excuse not to dance. And I would love to see you two demonstrate an Asgardian dance for us.”

Still Sif hesitates; she has her pride, and the idea of having all this crowd see her dance badly burns in her chest. But this only lasts until Loki gives her a challenging look. “Perhaps you’re willing to admit my superiority in this area,” he says, “for I can certainly dance the polska. I would be pleased to find an area where I am better than you.”

It is such an obvious ploy to manipulate her competitive spirit, and she is ashamed of how well it works. “Fine,” says she, and Loki starts to grin. “We shall dance the polska.”

He extends a hand, and she, cursing her stubborn pride, takes it. And they step out into the dance.

It turns out he’s right: he’s better than her, at least at first, for she has not danced in many decades, and she has quite forgotten the steps. The graceful Prince Loki, however, turns out to be quite excellent at the art. Under his sure guidance and leading, the steps come back to her quickly, and soon enough they are soaring across the floor together in a dance so joyful and high-spirited that she finds a laugh pulled from her lips. She has never been one for dancing, but if this is what it’s like—like a great duel without swords, like flying without wings—she might have to do it more often.

And there is surprising pleasure in those moments when their steps bring them close together, and he puts his hands on her waist and she puts her hands on his shoulders. It has been many years since they were close enough friends that casual physical contact was common, so she’s surprised at how touching him feels so familiar. And not at all unpleasant, which is quite something, coming from a woman who is not very accustomed to touching other people outside the sparring ring.

The music comes to an end, and the crowd that has gathered around to watch them bursts into applause. Sif’s head is spinning.

“Wonderful!” Alsiv exclaims. “Shall you perform another for us?”

But Sif’s world will not settle, and she withdraws her hands from Loki’s shoulders. “I think I must get a drink,” she says, and backs away. “Please excuse me.”

\---

**Midnight**

\---

“Where have you been?” says Loki. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you for the last half hour.”

Sif smiles. “Hiding, to be honest. After our dance, I found myself flooded with invitations, and not inclined to accept any of them. But taking ‘no’ for an answer does not seem to be an ability the Light Elves are born with. So when Alsiv and his wife offered to give me a tour of the manor, I was happy to accept. Just to get away from my would-be partners.”

“It must be terrible to be so popular,” Loki says solemnly, and Sif elbows him with a smile.

“As though you haven’t been wildly popular here tonight. I’ve seen you with a number of dance partners.”

“I assume these young ladies want the bragging rights that come with dancing with a prince. For normally I do not inspire such devotion.”

“Do not think so poorly of yourself,” says Sif. “I’m sure your rank has something to do with it, but I’m certain your being the handsomest man in the room has something to do with it as well.”

Loki goes very still. “The handsomest man in the room, you say?” he says finally.

She nods confidently, and he glances down at the glass in her hand. “How much of that have you had to drink?”

“Not as much as you imagine,” she says. “I will admit, I might be more defensive of the superiority of Asgardian manhood at the moment than I usually am. The last Light Elf I spoke to had a great deal to say on the subject of elven men, and how they are the handsomest and strongest and most desirable in all the Nine Realms. So of course I had to defend Asgard’s honor.”

“I will try not to be too flattered,” Loki smirks. “But that will be easy to do, for all I have to do is remember that if Thor were in the room, I would no longer be considered so handsome. In fact, no young lady would deign to look in my direction, in that case.”

“Thor is absurdly handsome,” she agrees seriously. “But it does not follow that you therefore cannot also be handsome. There are enough good looks to go around in the Odinson family.”

“No, really, how much have you had to drink?”

“I will learn to never compliment you again, if all it does is convince you that I am drunk.”

“It’s just rather strange,” Loki says. “Not only to have the Lady Sif pretend to have feelings for me, but to pay me compliments as well. I hardly know how to cope with it.”

“Enjoy it while you can. As soon as I get out of this dress, I will go back to being your humorless and practical comrade-in-arms.”

Loki smiles at that, but before he can speak, Sif catches something out of the corner of her eye, and sets her glass down so she can loop her arms around Loki’s neck. “I hope you’re prepared to be the subject of my affection once more, for Alana is approaching.”

Loki’s hands immediately come up to bracket her waist, and for a moment she is distracted by how long and strong his fingers are. “Then perhaps you had better say something affectionate,” he suggests, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

She snorts. “Have you ever known me to say any such thing, to anyone?” she counters. “Even when I _am_ in love, sentimentality is hardly my style. If anything romantic is to be said, it will have to come from you.”

For the briefest moment there’s something in his eyes she cannot read, and then he is leaning forward to bring his lips close to her ear, and even though it’s all part of the act, she can’t help enjoying the sensation. For a moment he lingers there, his cheek brushing hers (while she unconsciously holds her breath), and then he murmurs, “I’m the one who put the salamander in your bed when we were children.”

Caught off-guard, Sif barks out a sharp laugh of surprise. “I knew that was you!” she exclaims, leaning back to look at the unrepentant smirk on his face. “Everyone said you were out of the palace at the time, but I knew it was you.”

He shrugs modestly. “Magician.”

“What a little pest you were!” she laughs. “I don’t envy your parents having the raising of you.”

Something a little sad enters his expression then, and her brow furrows. But before she can ask what’s wrong, a voice interrupts them. “Don’t you look cozy?” purrs Alana.

Sif, who’d momentarily forgotten that Alana is the reason she currently has her arms around Loki, jumps. “You startled me!” she declares. “I did not see you coming.”

Alana largely ignores her statement. “I hate to steal your companion away,” she says in a voice that says that she does _not_ hate to steal Sif’s companion away, “but I heard that the orchestra is about to play _The Ice on the River,_ which happens to be the first song Loki and I ever danced to together—the first time we met, do you recall, Your Highness? Might I beg you for the honor of a repeat performance?”

Loki grimaces a little, and Sif can see that he would like to say no, but there’s no way for him to do so without being abominably rude and starting the diplomatic incident he’s been trying to avoid. After all, he’s danced with several other women since his arrival; he can’t pretend that he has no intention of dancing tonight.

“I would be delighted,” he says helplessly.

And that’s when Sif has an idea. She can’t save Loki from having to dance with Alana, but she can make sure Alana thinks that he is not available for her to claim. So she smiles at Loki and says, “Go ahead and dance; I’ll be waiting here when you’re done.” And then she puts her hands on his shoulders for balance, and goes up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek: slow and lingering and very clearly marking her territory. Then she looks over at Alana, smiling politely. “Bring him back to me soon, won’t you?” she requests.

Alana shoots her an irritated look—clearly the message was received—and pulls a rather stunned-looking Loki onto the dance floor.

\---

**1:00**

\---

“We should go to bed,” says Sif. The ball shows no sign of slowing—apparently celebrating all night is common among the Light Elves, and also no one wants to travel in the dark, with a monster on the loose—but a nagging sense of duty plagues her. “We have to hunt and slay a giant scorpion in the morning.”

A frown skitters across Loki’s face. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right.”

“Then why the frown?” she asks.

He seems uninclined to answer, and she stares at him, baffled. “Loki, do you . . . do you fear the battle we undertake tomorrow? For I assure you, we are equal to this beast.”

“Of course I’m not afraid!” he insists. “I was simply thinking that I will be sorry to see this party come to an end. I have had a good time.”

“As have I. But there will be such celebrations in Asgard. In fact we shall be having our own Yule celebration in just three days’ time.”

“Yes, but it’s not the same, is it?” he asks. “You and I are friends here. We are not friends in Asgard.” Immediately he looks embarrassed, and she supposes he didn’t mean to be so open; perhaps the glass of wine in his hand has something to do with it.

She cannot recall the last time she heard Loki admit to feeling affection for anyone in Thor’s social circle, and she can’t help the pleased smile that crosses her face. “That can change, Loki. We can be friends in Asgard. We used to be so close, do you recall?”

But the moment has passed; his emotional vulnerability was quite accidental, it is clear, and he is uncomfortable continuing down that path. “I am hungry again,” he says. “I think I will go find the refreshments.”

But Sif is not about to let him wander off; she has seen glimpses tonight of the Loki she once considered one of her dearest friends, and she has just gotten confirmation that he too misses the close relationship they once had. So she says airily, “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

He looks at her curiously. “You want to eat so soon before going to bed?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think it will hurt us to stay up a little bit longer.”

He hesitates. And then he smiles.

\---

**2:00**

\---

“And, one-two-three-that’s not your right foot.”

“Yes, it was.”

“How much of that wine have you drunk?” Loki demands.

Sif considers this. “A bit.”

“Well, that was definitely not your right foot. Try again. And, one-two-no, you move backward first.”

“This is impossible,” Sif informs him.

“Clearly it isn’t,” he says reasonably, “for everyone in this room appears to have learned this dance.” She shrugs, and he shakes his head. “How did you do the polska so well?”

“I have known that dance since I was a child. I was also more sober when we did the polska.”

He snorts. “Look, think of it like a fight. If someone steps toward you, you step . . .”

“Toward them,” she says confidently. “To fight them.”

“Fine, yes, but imagine that you’re not a shieldmaiden with little regard for her own safety. Then what direction do you step?”

“Why would I be in a fight if I weren’t a shieldmaiden?”

Loki sighs. “All right, imagine you are a shieldmaiden but you’ve found yourself in a battle with a foe you know you cannot defeat.”

“I have never met a foe I cannot defeat,” she says confidently.

Loki’s head falls forward in exasperation; then he takes a deep breath and looks back up at her. “The point is, when I move toward you, you move backward. When I move backward, you move toward me. Ready? Now, one-two-three—can you hear the beat of the music?”

“Music has never been a strength of mine,” she admits. “I can follow a polska; it’s fast and sharp. I’m not as good with this soft music.”

“Then we will start by helping you find the beat of the music,” he decides. “Don’t attempt any steps right now; just listen to the music, and when you think you’ve found the beat, try to . . . let’s say, sway in time.”

So Sif obediently closes her eyes. The first thing she becomes aware of is that she can hear the music better now, but she can also hear the crowd better as well, and she has to concentrate hard to pick out the strains of the orchestra.

The second thing she’s aware of is that she’s still in a dance hold with Loki, and she’s not certain whether he intended for her to release him or not. But she finds that she rather likes the sensation of his shoulder under her hand, his hand on her waist, their other hands joined. Being a shieldmaiden involves a great deal of physical contact, but it tends to be of the violent sort. She very rarely has anyone touch her gently like this—not since Haldor’s death, anyway—and she’s convinced herself that she doesn’t need that sort of thing in her life, but still, it’s surprisingly nice to feel Loki’s hands now.

She’s never thought of herself as someone who likes to have a man around. Haldor was the exception to that rule—an anomaly, really, someone who snuck up on her unexpectedly. And she also has to admit to herself that has long admired Thor’s physique and abilities, and that if he ever showed interest in her . . . which he hasn’t, and it seems he never will, which is fine, really. But those two aside, she’s never felt the need for a relationship, and is usually so focused on her training and her duty that she scarcely notices that she is alone.

So she is surprised at how much she likes the feeling of dancing in Loki’s arms. Perhaps she ought not write off romantic entanglements so entirely. After all, she was happy with Haldor; with the right man, who’s to say that she might not be happy again? It’s been more than a century now, but she still remembers how wonderful it was to love someone who loved her. Maybe it’s time to be open to the possibility of having that again, if she can find the right partner.

The music stops and she opens her eyes to realize that, to her embarrassment, she has somehow moved far closer to Loki than is normal when doing the waltz. Perhaps that explains the faintly bewildered look on his face.

“You seem to be swaying in time to the beat,” he says steadily. “Were you feeling it?”

“I was feeling it,” she murmurs, then flinches as she realizes that she said that in rather a more husky tone than she had intended.

She steps away from him, breaking their dance hold. Perhaps she _has_ drunk a little bit too much tonight.

(There is a part of her that wants very badly to keep dancing.)

\---

**3:00**

\---

The night has taken on a dreamlike quality, and Sif isn’t entirely certain how she ended up sprawled on a bench on the manor’s massive veranda, listening to Loki point out stars in the night sky overhead.

“I believe that yellowish star is Auðumbla,” he says, “though I admit it is hard to be sure I have the right one, seeing the sky from this perspective.”

“So it’s not enough to know about Asgardian stars,” she smiles. “You can also recognize stars in the far reaches of the Nine Realms.”

“Only because it’s a very distinctive color,” he admits.

They ought to be in bed, she knows; dawn is coming all too soon, and they have a dangerous task that awaits them in the morning. But she cannot bring herself to end the night just yet. This is the loveliest time she has had in a while, and that’s not just the wine talking.

It is the silver trees and the music coming through the veranda doors and the stars twinkling overhead. It is the dancing and the food and the good cheer that permeates the whole manor. It is having the attention of a handsome man fixed entirely on her, though she hardly knows why they’re keeping up the ruse; they haven’t seen Alana in over an hour. 

It is an entire evening spent with Loki—Loki as she used to know him, funny and engaging and sweet, not Loki as she knows him now, secretive and moody and withdrawn. She had not realized until tonight how much she has missed him, and she fears that once they are back in Asgard, back among the people who have known them all their lives, they will slip back into their old roles, and become polite acquaintances again.

And while she cannot imagine that Odin would be pleased if he learned that they are depriving themselves of sleep when they have an assignment they are meant to be fulfilling in the morning, she does imagine that Frigga would be pleased to know that Sif is choosing to reach out to her son. Thor, too, come to think of it. So she is not going to feel too badly about staying out too late to stargaze with Loki.

Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t quested on too little sleep before. She will just suggest to Loki that they not begin their expedition quite as early as they had originally intended.

“Can you see Asgard from here?” she asks. She tilts her head to the side to look at Loki, who is laying on a bench that sits at a right angle to hers, so their heads are close together but their feet far apart.

He lifts an arm to point. “That star there, just below the large reddish one—that is our sun.”

“Incredible,” she murmurs, then ponders for a moment. “You know, this is probably one of the farthest journeys I have ever taken away from Asgard.”

“For me as well.”

“Have you ever thought about going farther?” she asks. “Crossing the galaxy? Crossing the universe?”

Now it’s his turn to look over at her. “Have you?” he asks, and she understands the surprise she hears in his voice, given that this is her he’s talking to.

“Not forever,” she says. “I have every intention of living out my life in Asgard, and then dying in its defense. But to travel, just for a while . . . that could be wonderful. I enjoy seeing new places.”

Loki is silent for a long time. Then finally he admits, “I have thought of leaving.”

She looks over at him, alarmed. “Leaving? For good?”

“I don’t know if I would ever do it,” he says, “but . . . I’ve thought of it. I don’t feel that I’m doing anyone any good where I am, so why not go see what the universe has to offer?”

“You are a prince of Asgard,” she says reasonably. “You cannot just leave. You have obligations. There are expectations. Besides, your family would miss you.”

“Would they?” he mutters.

She looks over at him again, but he’s staring resolutely at the stars. “Loki,” she says softly.

“I suppose Mother would be displeased,” he says as though she hasn’t spoken.

“And your father,” she says. “And Thor would be heartbroken.”

“I’m not at all certain of that.”

He sounds so vulnerable, and she can’t recall the last time he allowed himself to show so much weakness in front of her. It both warms and breaks her heart. “I’m sorry you feel this way,” she says softly, “but if you cannot see what is absolutely obvious to an outsider, let me give you an outsider’s perspective: your family adores you, and they would all be crushed if they were to lose you.”

“If that’s true, then Odin, in particular, has done an awfully good job of hiding it.”

She cannot help but wince at that, because he’s right: Odin has never been one for showing affection, even when he feels it. “I don’t disagree that Odin does not often reveal his feelings. But it would be a mistake to think that means he has none.”

“Is it so unreasonable to expect him to show some level of affection, if that affection exists?”

She thinks about this for a moment, and comes up with a good response. “How do you feel about me?”

There is a pause. “Pardon?” says Loki in a slightly strangled voice.

“How do you feel about me?” she repeats. “Do you hate me?”

“What? No.”

“Is it just that you do not care for me at all, one way or the other?”

Another pause. “No, that’s not it.”

“Well,” she says triumphantly, “your behavior would say otherwise. You hardly speak to me these days; outside of meals, I scarcely see you unless I or Thor seeks out your company. According to you, I should take that to mean you care little for me. Yet you claim you do not dislike me." Then she quotes him: "Is it so unreasonable to expect you to show some level of affection, if that affection exists?”

There is a moment of stunned silence. “Uh . . .”

She rarely manages to win a verbal argument with Loki, so she feels rather pleased with herself. “There are a variety of reasons a person might choose to not display what others would consider an expected level of affection. And perhaps you should not judge Odin for what you yourself are guilty of. And perhaps you two have more in common than you realize.” She smiles to herself, and then grows thoughtful. “It is good to hear,” she said softly, “that you do not hate me. I had wondered, to be honest.”

Loki is silent a moment, then says in a low voice, “Sif, I do not hate you. I have always been . . . fond of you. And I am sorry I made you doubt that.”

“Thank you,” she grins. “For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you either.”

They lapse into another silence. “I always thought . . .” he says eventually. “I always thought that you sided with Thor.”

“Sided with Thor?” Sif repeats. “When were you two in a fight, where sides needed to be chosen?”

“No,” he says. “I mean . . .”

When he does not go on, she guesses, “You mean that you see yourself always locked in conflict with Thor, and you’ve already decided who among your family and friends would take his side over yours.”

“Isn’t that how it is?” he says defensively. “He is everyone’s favorite; everyone loves him and barely takes note of me. I have had to fight and scrabble for every bit of notice and affection I have ever gotten, from everyone except my mother. If I don’t, I am ignored and cast aside.” He sighs. “I suppose I got tired of the struggle, so I stopped trying, and, well, everyone was on Thor’s side, so . . .”

She rolls her eyes fondly, though he won’t see it in the darkness. “Loki, love is not a zero-sum game. If people show regard for Thor, it doesn’t lessen the amount of regard they have to show for you.”

“And yet they do show less regard for me.”

“Perhaps this is because you are remarkably good at pushing people away. Perhaps you constantly compare yourself to Thor, and assume everyone likes him best and that therefore they must dislike you, so you treat them with disdain, so they _do_ dislike you because you’re unkind to them. Have you ever thought of that?”

There is a very long pause. “ . . . no.”

“People would like you, if you would let them. You’re clever and funny and a good storyteller and the best sorcerer in Asgard. But they fear your sharp tongue and your disdain. Stop hiding behind those things, and allow people to get to know you again.”

“But they do like Thor better,” he insists.

She sighs. “They like Thor better than they like me as well. And why shouldn’t they? As crown prince, Thor is in a position to attract notice and admiration. And he is the greatest warrior in Asgard, as well as handsome, funny, charming, and easy-going. I am none of those things. But I have found peace of mind comes not from my trying to be the best version of Thor, but my trying to be the best version of myself.”

“ . . . hmm.”

“You should take my advice. Don’t waste your energy attempting to beat Thor at his own game; you’ll never succeed. Stop trying to be the best version of Thor, and start trying to be the best version of Loki.”

Loki is quiet for such a long time that she wonders if he has fallen asleep. She finally looks over at him to see him staring at her; when their gazes meet, he quickly looks back up at the night sky. “You make some interesting points, my lady. I will ponder what you’ve said.”

“Do,” she says. “Oh look! A shooting star. Make a wish.”

“Done,” says Loki.

\---

**4:00**

\---

Sif has just made up her mind that this time she means it when she says it’s time for them to get to bed, when the giant scorpion they meant to hunt tomorrow attacks the manor and makes that whole point moot.

“It must have been attracted by the people and the noise!” Sif yells to Alsiv as she and Loki and their host pound their way toward the back of the ballroom, where the scorpion is breaking through the wall of plate glass windows with its massive tail and stinger.

“Scorpions hunt through detecting vibrations,” Loki agrees. “Perhaps the music and the dancing and all the guests were too much for him to resist.”

They pass Alsiv’s wife, calmly and competently guiding the panicking guests out of the ballroom, and Alsiv grins at her. “Wonderful woman. Mark my words, Your Highness, the surest path to a happy life is to marry a woman more competent than you are. How fortunate you’ve already found one.”

“She’s a marvel,” Loki agrees distractedly, and Sif wonders if he’s speaking of Alsiv’s wife or of her.

They can see the scorpion now, and it’s larger than she’d expected; from Loki’s exclamation of dismay, he feels the same way. “This is an unpleasant way to end a Yule ball,” he says.

“Can you kill it?” Alsiv demands.

“One way to find out,” Sif says grimly. “Loki?”

He gestures a few times, and she feels the pressure against her eardrums that means a spellcasting is taking place. Her shield, her double-bladed sword, and her armor appear before her, along with Loki’s things, and with another spell, she is suddenly clad in her armor, saving her the time required to buckle it all on.

“May I have my boots?” she asks Loki, holding out one foot so he can see her impractical sandals. He obliges, and she grins at him. “Having a wizard join you in battle is always an advantage.”

“I wish everyone shared your conviction, my lady,” he says. “Now, Alsiv, you should take cover.” Their host obliges, and the Asgardians turn together to face the beast, just as it breaks the last of the windows and forces its way into the ballroom.

“Thoughts?” Sif says, and in that moment the scorpion strikes, its massive tail hurtling toward them so quickly that they only just manage to fling themselves out of the way. The stinger strikes the ground where they were standing just a moment ago, leaving a depression in the floor nearly large enough for Sif to fit in.

“Sif!” he yells.

“I’m fine! You?”

“Never better,” he says sarcastically. “I think our first move is to neutralize the tail; that seems its most dangerous weapon.”

“Can you use magic against it?” Sif asks.

Loki ducks out of his cover and gestures; a flash of color engulfs the scorpion’s tail, which slows down for a few moments. But the magic soon fades, and the scorpion leaves another massive dent in the ground, moving just as fast as it did before.

“It has some defense against my magic,” he calls over to Sif. “I imagine that is because it has magic of its own; it must, for a scorpion doesn’t get this large in the normal way of things.”

“All right, conventional weapons it is, then. Give me a boost?”

They nod at each other, and then Sif grips her sword and runs toward the scorpion. Loki briefly immobilizes the tail again, then turns to Sif. She jumps up; he gestures, and she feels his magic wrap around her and toss her even higher into the air.

Their combined aim is true; Sif reaches the beast’s immobilized tail, and just as it breaks free of Loki’s magic and starts to move again, she swings her sword and strikes at the stinger, then manages to land on the scorpion’s back.

The scorpion shrieks in pain, but the job isn’t finished yet; she has to dodge that tail and hack at the stinger a few more times before she severs it.

The scorpion shrieks again. Sif lands on the ground, and the stinger lands a few feet away.

But her triumph is short-lived; faster than her eyes can track, one of its massive pincers flashes out and seizes her around her midsection. Immediately she begins fighting to break loose, even as it starts to lift her from the ground, but although she has kept hold of her sword, her position relative to the arm makes it nearly impossible to get a good angle to strike at the thing.

“Sif!” Loki yells.

She’s at the thing’s eye level now, looking at the various bits and appendages that make up its mouth, and she has to say: she’s seen a lot of horrible things in her life, but this is definitely near the top of the list. If she can’t strike the beast’s arm, she will have to wait to see if it tries to eat her, and strike then.

But this turns out to be unnecessary, because suddenly one of Loki’s daggers is buried in one of the thing’s eyes, and it is hissing in pain and wiping at that eye with its free pincer. There’s another flash of silver, and now another dagger is buried in an eye on the other side of the thing’s body. Apparently keen to have both pincers free to try to knock the daggers loose, the scorpion drops Sif, who rolls as she hits the ground and is up and running again immediately.

“Excellent aim!” she yells as she runs for cover. “What now? Do we keep going for the eyes?”

“I don’t think that will do much,” Loki says. “Scorpions have only middling eyesight, so it can use other senses to hunt. I think we need to try to pierce the exoskeleton.”

Sif obligingly runs from her cover and hacks at the scorpion a few times while it’s still distracted by the daggers, but her sword glances off the sturdy exoskeleton.

“I need to get a more precise shot,” she says. “Maybe from its back, so I can put my weight into it.”

“Another boost, then?”

So they repeat the process: Loki uses his magic to immobilize the creature for a moment, then boosts Sif’s jump. She lands squarely on the thing’s back, and drives the point of her sword with all her might into a seam in its exoskeleton, grinning when the sword goes deep. The scorpion tries to strike at her; its tail no longer has a stinger, but it’s plenty large enough to knock her from its back.

“Was that enough?” she calls as she rolls to her feet and runs for cover.

“It’s definitely injured,” Loki calls. He gestures to conjure his spear, takes a moment to center himself, and then throws the spear with astonishing accuracy into the scorpion’s open mouth. The scorpion staggers, then sways, then finally collapses to the ground in a fall so heavy that it makes the chandeliers overhead rattle.

Then all is silent.

Loki and Sif stare at each other from across the fallen beast’s pincers. “Do you think that was it?” Sif asks.

“They have been known to play dead,” Loki says. “We had best make certain.”

So Sif climbs up on the fallen monster to pull her sword from where it’s lodged, while Loki works his spear free, and then the shieldmaiden goes to work detaching its head from its body.

By this time, the sudden silence has clearly caught the rest of the party’s attention, because the guests are creeping slowly back into the ballroom. Alsiv is at the front of his group, and when his gaze falls on the fallen scorpion, he lets out a loud cheer.

“You’ve done it! I never doubted you for a moment. Well done, well done!”

“The corpse will have residual magic; you’ll want your magicians involved in disposing of it,” Loki says.

“And we’ll need to try to track the thing back to its lair, and be certain there aren’t more waiting there,” Sif adds, and turns toward the broken windows.

Alsiv seems to know exactly what she’s thinking. “We can send people in the morning!” he insists. “You two have already done all the difficult work; we can do the cleanup.”

“But there might be more scorpions to be fought,” Sif insists.

“If there are, we won’t engage; we’ll come back and seek help,” says Alsiv. “But I’m not worried; this scorpion was male, and all our reports have been of a single, solitary monster. Don’t worry; we may not be as good as you, but we’re not useless in a fight.”

Alsiv’s wife reaches them then, a smile on her face. “We cannot thank you enough,” she says.

“I agree,” says her husband.

“What shall we do to show our appreciation?” she wonders.

“I know!” says Alsiv. “We shall break out our best spirits. You Asgardians like a good drink, don’t you?”

Loki and Sif confess that they do, and Alsiv smiles. “To the dining hall!”

The assembled guests all cheer.

\---

**5:00**

\---

Things get a little fuzzy after that.

Alsiv’s best spirits turn out to be much stronger than the wine that was served earlier. These are definitely not the first drinks Sif has had tonight. It’s incredibly late—or early, as the case may be—and Sif just fought a giant scorpion, and she is tired. And all these things combine together to make the edges of reality indistinct and shifting as she and Loki sit at the head table and are the subject of toast after toast.

Going to sleep now would be the sensible thing, given the night they’ve had, but Sif can’t bring herself to suggest it: everyone who came to the Yule ball is now drinking and toasting to the Asgardian warriors, and she’s not one to miss the chance to hear people praise her.

Besides, she’s not ready to say good night to Loki, for she hasn’t felt so close to him in decades, and she fears that once tonight ends, everything will go back to the way it was.

Besides, they’ve already killed the monster. They have nothing in particular they need to wake up for after this.

It turns out that for all the Light Elves’ sophistication and elegance, they get just as riotous and undignified as Asgardians once they’ve got some hard liquor in them; the scene in that dining room would not be out of place in any Asgardian mead hall. Poised elves become sloppy and cheerful. Songs are sung, loudly and off-key. A scuffle breaks out in one corner.

And at the center of it all sit Sif and Loki, the guests of honor, listening to Light Elf after Light Elf praise their act of valor, between songs and stories. It all fills Sif with a warm glow, and she finds herself shooting frequent grins at Loki, who smiles back without any of his usual reserve. She throws her arm around his neck and and proposes a toast to the Asgardian royal family at one point, and is met with a deafening cheer.

Eventually she finds herself pressed up against Loki’s side—her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders—and she has no idea who initiated the contact. But she has no intention of moving; he is warm and solid and comforting, and his nearness is sending pleasant little thrills through her body. Besides, isn’t she his date tonight? Nothing is entirely clear in her brain right now, but she’s fairly certain that she started the night as Loki’s date.

She looks across the room and sees Alana glaring daggers at her. Now one thing she does remember for certain is that she doesn’t like that woman, and is out to keep her away from Loki. So Sif turns to the prince, wraps her free arm around him, and leans up to nuzzle the soft skin below his ear. Loki goes quite still, and Sif can feel his pulse racing beneath her lips. There’s great satisfaction in knowing she has such an effect on him, and she grins in triumph.

Coming to this Yule ball is absolutely the best idea she’s had in a long time.

\---

**Dawn**

\---

The sun is peeking over the horizon by the time the guests start to leave. Alana is one of the first to go; she bids her host a brief farewell, then turns to see Loki and Sif with their arms around each other, waving goodbye politely. She doesn’t look entirely pleased, but she takes her husband’s arm and leaves without further comment.

Loki laughs and embraces Sif quite unashamedly, staggering a little unsteadily on his feet as he does so; he's at least as drunk as Sif is. “That was a significantly better way to spend an evening than fending off her advances,” he informs her.

“I am pleased that you find me less repellent than that woman,” she says quite seriously.

“Significantly less repellent,” he assures her.

Alsiv turns and sees them then. “You two need to go upstairs and go to bed,” he commands them with a smile. “I mean it. I will brook no argument here. I do not want to face the Allfather’s wrath if his son makes himself sick on my watch.”

They laugh and agree and bid farewell to their host, who promises that he will have a fine midday meal waiting for them when they wake. Loki releases Sif from his embrace, then looks surprised and pleased when she just wraps her arm around his instead. And together they go up the stairs.

“I would call this a very successful quest,” Sif announces as they walk.

“We didn’t even have to sleep outdoors,” Loki agrees. “I would call that the most successful sort of quest.”

Sif is loose-limbed and happy, the satisfaction of a successful battle and a feast in her honor filling her chest. Beside her, Loki is looking relaxed in a way she can scarcely recall seeing in him in the last few centuries. The world is warm and cozy and hazy at the edges, which is certainly due to how much she drank at the party, but it’s also due to the night she’s just had, to Loki’s presence by her side, to the smiles he keeps sending her way. Her entire world has shifted in a fundamental way, and she doesn't think she minds.

The rooms that their host first assigned them yesterday sit side by side; they pause between the doorways of the two rooms, and Sif looks up at Loki. There is so much she wants to say, and she doesn’t know how to articulate any of it. She’s not Loki, after all; she’s a woman of action, not words. So perhaps she ought to rely on her actions here.

She crooks a finger at Loki, gesturing for him to come closer. He looks surprised, but obediently leans down. And she goes up on her toes and kisses him.

He responds so quickly that she wonders if he’d been thinking about doing this very thing himself. One of his arms wraps around her, while his other hand cradles the back of her neck and head, holding her in place while he kisses her with the same intense focus he showed her during the party. His kiss is slow and deliberate and intoxicating, and Sif is not the swooning type but she thinks she might understand what people mean when they use the phrase “weak at the knees.”

Sha makes a needy little noise that would embarrass her immensely if she was sober enough to be aware she’d made it, and grips at the back of his shirt to pull him closer. And that’s when Loki jerks away from her as though he’s been burned, leaving her feeling stunned and not remotely sufficiently kissed.

“I’m sorry,” he says wretchedly. “I let myself forget it wasn’t real.”

“What?” she demands.

He takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders, and steps away. “You’re very drunk, Sif,” he says. “When you’re sober, you’ll be furious that I let you do this.”

She opens her mouth to object, but he slips through the door into his room. She hears the lock engage behind him.

She stares at the door a long few moments, confused and unhappy, and then the sleepless night and the alcohol catch up to her. She stumbles into the room assigned to her, and barely manages to undress herself before crashing onto the bed and falling fast asleep.

\---

**Noon**

\---

Sif wakes slowly in a very comfortable bed, stretching slowly and languorously and wondering if she can stay here forever.

But no, she needs to get up for training; the Warriors Three will be expecting her, and if they should hear of her sleeping in, she will never hear the end of it.

She opens her eyes.

She is not in her quarters at the Asgardian royal palace, and it is not dawn. She blinks, and then remembers: she is in the home of Alsiv, leader of a colony of Light Elves, and it is noon.

She blinks again, and remembers that the scorpion they were to hunt obligingly attacked the manor last night, so the quest is complete and she has nothing she needs to wake up for. She remembers getting quite thoroughly drunk after the battle, and is grateful for her Asgardian physiology, which is the reason she isn’t hungover now.

She blinks again, and feels heat suffuse through her. Because now she is remembering the rest of last night, of pretending to be romantically involved with Loki, of every touch and term of endearment that passed between them. She remembers kissing him this morning out in the hallway. She closes her eyes, but that just makes the memory of his lips’ slow slide over hers stand out all the more clearly. Her pulse is racing as though she has just fought a great battle.

Loki thought she would regret the kiss when she was sober. But she's sober now, and all she wants is to kiss him again.

It’s madness, because she is a lowly shieldmaiden, and it is not her place to pursue a romantic relationship with her prince. Surely she is not the sort of woman Odin wants his son to court, for courting is a step to marriage, and no one in their right mind would consider her suited to being a princess. And surely she is not the sort of woman Loki would pursue for a non-state-sanctioned romantic affair, for while she does not know what Loki’s type is, she’s certain she’s not it; she is not sophisticated or glamorous or charismatic or talented at flirtations.

But that doesn’t change what she wants. That doesn’t change the fact that things have changed since yesterday, and she has seen a glimpse of the man Loki could be, the man she suspects he is behind all his masks, and she is very taken with that man. She wants to spend more time with that man. She wants his smile and his laughter and his clever mind in her life. She wants his hands and his lips and his intense focus. She wants to know if Loki is willing to release his resentment and his reserve and become that man. She wants to know if that man could ever want her. She has remembered what it's like to be in a relationship, and it turns out it is something she wants very much.

She closes her eyes and sees that kiss replay on the back on her eyelids in vivid detail, and she aches with longing.

And then she opens her eyes.

It might not be her place to expect anything from a prince of Asgard, but she is a shieldmaiden, and she has never backed down from a challenge before. She will not let this be the thing that reduces her to living in fear.

She nods decisively and climbs out of bed.

Twenty minutes later she is dressed and styled for the day and knocking resolutely on Loki’s door. There is no answer, and a servant who happens to be in the hallway politely informs her that His Highness is in a sitting room downstairs with Alsiv and his wife, waiting for her to wake so they can eat lunch.

The servant guides her to the sitting room. When she walks in, the occupants look up to greet her, but Loki won’t quite meet her eyes. That’s not necessarily a bad sign, she reminds herself, and smiles at her hosts. “I hate to be rude, but is there somewhere I might speak privately with Loki?”

Alsiv and his wife glance at each other, and smile. “You can use this room,” says Alsiv. “I will go check on the cleanup in the ballroom.”

“And I will check on lunch,” says his wife. “And we can lock this door so you won’t be disturbed.”

So saying, they leave the room and usher the servant who was serving tea out with them, locking the door as the go. The door closes, and Loki and Sif are alone.

Loki still won’t quite look at her, but she can read dejection in the slump of his shoulders. “I should apologize again,” he begins, but Sif isn’t having it.

“I was drunk this morning,” she says, and he nods his agreement. And then she says, “But I’m not drunk now, and I still want to kiss you.”

Loki goes startle-still, and then he slowly looks up and finally meets her gaze, his eyes wide.

Her confidence stumbles a little—she is not in the habit of doing this—but she shores it back up and says, “I know that I am in no position to request anything of you; you are my prince. I owe you my fealty; you owe me nothing. But I believe in being honest, and I believe in not letting anything frighten me into silence, so I am telling you: if you were to kiss me again, I would be . . . pleased.”

Loki is still staring, while Sif works hard to hold his gaze. “I do not know how to respond to this,” he admits after a while.

“To be fair, neither would I. I do not know what you feel, and I do not know what you want, and what you are allowed to want.”

He rises to his feet. “And what do you feel? What do you want?”

That intense focus is back on her, and it’s making her deliciously short of breath. “Last night I saw the Loki I used to know—the one who does not hide himself behind his masks and his resentment. I’ve missed him. I want him back; I want to spend time with him.” Her voice shakes a little. “I want to find out if that kiss was as good as I’m remembering. Beyond that . . . honestly I had not dared to think much beyond that.”

“Dared?”

She shrugs. “You are a prince of Asgard. I am a mere warrior—only a little higher than a commoner. I have no idea what I can want—what is reasonable to want.”

He takes a step toward her. “But if you were allowed to want anything?”

She swallows. “I am simply here to tell you . . . I would not be unhappy, if what we pretended last night were true.”

He looks thunderstruck. “You would not be unhappy?”

“I cannot promise anything; we scarcely know each other anymore. But if you and I—we could—I would be happy to have the chance to find out—”

She cannot find the words. Luckily, Loki seems to understand. “If I were to kiss you, you would be pleased?” His voice is shaky.

She nods.

He takes another step toward her. “If I were to ask my father whether I could court you, would you still be pleased?”

She can’t help the flash of a smile that plays over her face before she gets her expression under control; Loki must see it, for his eyes go wide. “Would you be willing to go back to Asgard and tell all of my family and all of your friends that we were courting?”

She doesn’t mean to whisper when she says “Yes,” but whisper she does.

“For me,” Loki presses. “The second son. The lesser prince. The lesser warrior.”

“For you,” Sif confirms. “The great warrior. The great sorcerer. The man who can always make me smile. My friend.”

He is staring. “Sif.”

She smiles. “Loki.”

And the next thing she knows, he has flown across the distance still remaining between them to kiss her with a fervor that sets her heart racing. There’s a sort of desperation in the way he gathers her to him, and she takes comfort in the thought that clearly he wanted this as much as she did.

He breaks the kiss to pant “You are certain?”, his eyes still closed, and there is such vulnerable uncertainty in his voice that her heart melts.

So she presses her lips to one cheekbone, and then his forehead, and then the other cheek. He is still under her ministrations, but she can feel his heart pounding where her hand lays against his jaw. “A person might get the idea that you’re a bit fond of me,” she murmurs, and feels her heart leap in her chest at the thought.

“Sif,” he says, something pleading in his tone.

“I am certain,” she says, and this time it’s her who kisses him, slow and deliberate and thorough. They cling to each other, and she manages to spare a few brain cells to reflect that if she’d known it was possible to be kissed like this, she wouldn’t have been so dismissive of romantic relationships. But now she can have this all the time.

She can’t help smiling at the thought.

Loki breaks the kiss and smiles too, and they stand together in that sitting room, entwined in an embrace, and Sif reflects how glad she is that their hosts locked the door.

“You know,” she says, and leans back to get a better look at him, “you never actually asked me.”

Loki, who is looking thoroughly kissed and thoroughly dazed, blinks. “Oh! Sif, may I court you?” And then he smirks a little, and she’s glad to see that side of personality return. “Although after you just kissed me like that, I certainly hope your answer is yes. Surely the Lady Sif is too honorable to lead a naive young man on like that.”

She snorts. “Naive, my foot. But yes. My answer is yes.” And then she hesitates. “Though I hope you are willing to stop avoiding everyone so much. I don’t want to have to choose between you and them.”

He gives a dramatic sigh, but he’s smiling. “I suppose that can be arranged.” And then he grows a little more serious. “You said you’ve missed the Loki you used to know. I . . . have missed him too.”

She grins at him, something she’s done so much more than normal lately that her face is starting to hurt. “Then let us find him together. And just think: the next time you are being overenthusiastically pursued, you won’t have to lie to be left alone.”

He grins. “I will let the Lady Sif throw a few punches, and young ladies will scatter.”

“Punching is a delight,” she agrees. “But there is a way to stake my claim that I might like even better.”

“Which is?”

She kisses him again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs against her lips. “Much better.”

She smiles.

\---

fin

\---


End file.
